


Peter Parker Needs A Steady Income and Less People on Fire

by bluerosele



Category: Fantastic Four, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: BECAUSE THE WORLD DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH SPIDER-MAN ORGIN STORY, Backstory AU, Drabble Hybrid, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Pre-Spider-Man-Spider-ing, Weird Plot Shit, spider-man au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerosele/pseuds/bluerosele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's got enough of a story for pictures and enough pictures for paying rent. Then a fire has to ruin it all--a fire with a name who also happens to save his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peter Parker Needs A Steady Income and Less People on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Fantastic Four self-directed exposure therapy. 
> 
> I'm horrible at titles.

Peter had been looking for a story. More specifically, pictures. 

More often than not, this is usually what he’s doing. Subsequently, it’s what gets him in situations like these but a story is a story with pictures which are cash and he’ll follow it to the end. Even if that implies his end to some extent. Or, final extent. 

Aunt May needs the money and he’s going to help in any way he can. Even if that means, well—

Three gruff men are stacking boxes in arranged formations by the warehouse center four streets over from his apartment complex. His neighborhood is questionable but up to this point Peter hadn’t experienced actual law breaking than what was suggested when it was common knowledge not to go out when its dark. It’s possibly the best moment of his life and he has to hold himself back from running out and hugging the oversized men for the article opportunity. 

A story like this surpasses Midtown High’s paper stops turns back makes rude gestures and keeps running. Of course, there’s a certain amount of shamed loyalty Peter feels towards the under-appreciated, hardly read does-it-really-count? paper he’s betraying, but the feeling is far from reciprocated on the paper’s behalf so there’s only so much guilt he can feel for the excuse of news. This could actually get him connections, this could get him to a job, a steady income. This could to escort his aunt to a home she deserves, a place where when things happen people don’t shrug and say ‘yeah, well, happens’. 

The sharp ricocheted clatter of steel on steel from the boxes as they’re moved with little care, redirects Peter’s planning for after the story, to, well, getting the story. All he knows so far is the Kingpin he’s been tagging for the past few months has orchestrated this and that’s all he needs to know right now. Details unfurl naturally once evidence is concentrated, and the evidence here is whatever’s in the boxes the Kingpin doesn’t want anyone else to know about. 

Peter is so absorbed in straining to pinpoint some specific clue as to what exactly the cargo is he doesn’t register the small click behind his ear. 

“Don’t move,” says a voice that fits so perfectly into ‘Big Scary Burly Man With Gun’ Peter feels a bit detached by how expected it is. “Get up.” The gun pushes closer against his head and wow okay that’s a gun. That is a gun towards his head. He is being threatened trying to get the word out to the people. 

This is _amazing_. 

“I—I can’t do both,” Peter says, not intending for it to sound oppositional, if just to figure out which he wanted (man with gun is in charge at the moment). He especially didn’t intend for the backlash whip of the gun. Peter needed to protect his head, his head was the key of his success.

“ _Get up,_ ” the voice sort of gutturally gruffs out and Peter gets up. The voice either wasn’t expecting cooperation, or had no other plans past this point. “Paul what do I do now?” He calls out. Okay, it was the latter.

Paul (and really Peter might die just from the idea of being killed by a thug named Paul) rounds the collection of scraps Peter had been using as hideout. His eyebrows seemed to be creased into permanent frustration, even more emphasized by what the voice has just said. “Don’t use my name you idiot.” 

“He didn’t know I was using your name until you said so fucking moron.” 

Paul gives the voice a look that quickly silences him. Peter is new to this whole negotiations with cargo settlers who caught him spying on them but is beginning to feel a little left out. 

“I’m sorry, should I go?” He asks, sizing up his options. If he runs he runs into Paul and his angry eyebrow head. He could duck and hope the movement would startle the voice into shooting Paul. Peter doesn’t know if he’s ready for that level of intense journalism though. There’re boundaries he’s set up for himself, boundaries he won’t think of crossing. 

Before International Journalism that is. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Paul growls his eyebrows somehow bulging and Peter shuts the fuck up. 

Maybe Peter always anticipated more excuses, maybe Peter expected to have an active part in the decision making for this whole ‘Threatening the the Reporter and Truth’ process. In all honesty it was a bit disappointing more than anything when Paul only gives him a once over before just waving at voice to use the gun. He knows that wave, he knows what it’s used for, he knows because it’s the same, it’s always the same, and now it’s brushing over him asking for the same outcome. Peter closes his eyes. 

And misses everything. 

A rushing crackle with heat trail flicks by his arms and as he’s worrying this is what it feels like to die there are two yelps too surprised to be pained and the gun against his head is gone. His eyelids don’t show star speckled dark anymore, they’re red and hot very, very hot. 

“Hey. Bad guys aren’t here anymore. Well, yeah they’re here, but unconscious so you’re safe and all.” This voice is much different than how the others had sounded, younger and almost sweet, and if it’s a thug, well he’s a pretty unassuming thug so it’s his own fault for not being warningly thuggish that he opens his eyes. 

He’s not a thug. 

He’s a fire. 

“ _Oh my God,_ ” Peter says, and yeah that had been too loud, but there was a man. On fire. A very calm man relaxed about being on fire granted but nevertheless. 

“Sorry!” The fire flares up and then immediately subdues itself as if trying to make itself more presentable. “Sorry—listen no shhh—that was a bad move on my part really I’m sorry but you can’t scream right now alright? Most of the bad guys are gone but most of them are still—”

“Hey!” 

“Around.” The fire sounds exasperated. Fires shouldn’t sound exasperated. Fires should not talk. Peter’s teeth start chattering despite the heat coming from the relatively near space. Five more thugs pour out around the edges of Peter’s peripheral vision and the fire turns to back him into the wall behind them. 

“What the fuck is it—what do we even do with it—” one’s mumbling to itself and Peter’s absorbed enough in actually identifying with one of the men who might kill him, the gun going off is somehow even more amplified. Peter will forever deny the totally justifiable squeaking sounds he makes.  

Things progress. 

The fire still stands (or floats, or, well like, waves) and flickers around reaching out to the men. His movement blurs to just being whips and remnants of something being there, like a burnt out bonfire, and Peter tries to follow but blues and reds edge out before he can see new ones. Each time theres a crackle of split flames. He’s vaguely aware the men are falling and screaming but the fire is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Surprisingly, the men are not burned. Their clothes are chard and eyebrows singed but for the most part their injuries seem to have come from the impact they had with the ground when the fire flipped them over. Peter blinks and the fire is back in front of him. 

“Right, yeah, okay. You alright?” He asks, nonchalantly for a fire that’s just done fire things to however many thugs. Or, nonchalantly for a fire. A fire is probably enough. 

“Yeah.” Peter lies, because he is mostly all right. He’s not hurt. He’s completely fine. This was for the story. The story was first, he was a reporter, or photographer for reporters, he would be fine—the ground was suddenly near his face. 

“No. No you are not fine.” The fire shimmies at the base around Peter before bending over at a distance. “I—I can’t pick you up. The whole fire thing kind of gets in the way, should I go get help? Are you going into shock? Why would I ask you that you probably wouldn’t know.” 

“On the contrary,” Peter spits out gracefully against the gravel. “I have some experience. This isn’t that don’t worry.” 

“Oh, good,” the fire sighs out and the flames blow out with him. “Wait. No, not good. Also, hold on I’m supposed to be comforting you.” 

“It’s okay, I’m used to it.” Peter’s brain is far off elsewhere and using the fire as a reference point he tries to bring it back forward. After a few more moments he steadies himself and begins to push upwards, dusting himself off to attain some dignity. “So, thank you. Fire. Man.” 

“Oh, no, no, no.” The fire extends what must be his arms and waves them in flashes of flames. “No, don’t do that.” 

“No…thank you?” 

“Actually that was nice, thanks for that, and the not screaming after it and everything. I meant the name. Please don’t spread Fire Man around I don’t—I really don’t want my super name to be Fire Man. There are actual firemen, and it’ll be confusing.” 

Peter nods along for whatever reason, he’s not following. But, that’s. Certainly a lead. “Super name? Like, superhero? Are you a—”

“I don’t know? I’m still kinda learning the code, and prerequisites to calling myself a super hero. You’re kind of my first solo case?” The fire _scratches the back of his head._ Peter needs some sort of reward for handling this as well as he’s decided he is. 

“First solo case,” Peter tilts his head because yeah what just happened was a case. He can work with these terms. “Huh, happy to have been an eventful one I guess.” Peter smiles sticking out his hand, before realizing he’s about to shake hands with fire and pulling it back and possibly almost slapping himself with it because literally what is tonight. “Sorry, I just—”

“First time talking to fire. It’s all good,” there’s a glint like a reflected glare of red and Peter guesses he’s smiling too. Which is comforting. As far as fire interactions go. “I’d tell you my name, but I’m still working on it. You can call me Johnny.” His extends his hand while still keeping it without Peter’s reach. Peter does the same. 

“Peter. Peter Parker.” 

“Nice to meet you Peter Parker. Cool name. Sounds like a reporter.”

Peter liked this fire. 

“Or a cartoon character.”

Peter was working on liking the fire.

His legs were wobbly but still carrying him forward, being careful about avoiding tripping and landing face first in the fire—or well Johnny. Not falling into Johnny. He tries not to think about that too much as he heads towards the box. “Did you just give me your name? Doesn’t that go against superhero code?”

“What? There aren’t five million Johnny’s in the world? Oh. Oh no okay where you going? Those aren’t—bad guys were messing with those remember? Probably not ours to take.”

Peter means to say something, really should let him know he’s not an accomplice or trying to make the situation worse than it is already. He’s not sure of himself at the moment, but he knows he needs to find out what are in the crates and get the story in and out and _tell someone about it._

Johnny sparks in front of him and the sudden heat has him shield his eyes and topple back a bit. “We should go now.” None of the earlier uncertainty of his voice was here anymore.

“Okay.” Peter makes himself turn in the other direction. “Okay.”

The fire flares around, then stutters back abruptly. “Do you need help getting home? I can’t exactly give you a lift because yeah fire but I could walk you?” 

A lot has happened to Peter in the past eighteen years. Too much probably and this night is more of a repeat on the long list, present company excluded, but he’s never gotten an invite to be escorted by anyone. Or, any fire. “Sure,” he says before realizing he’s saying anything. The thought occurs maybe he shouldn’t show this mysterious fire man (not literally) where he lives. Showing mysterious fire men (not literally) where one lives could end poorly. But, he figures Johnny’s kinda saved him already and if he wanted Peter in any position like the men on the ground he would probably be down too. But still. “Oh, but wait this isn’t going to be like a thing where your archenemies sees us together and thinking we’re in cohorts like kidnaps me or something right? I’ve got a paper due Tuesday and it would really throw off my schedule.” 

The fire nods in understanding. “I’ll be sure to schedule any archenemies interruptions after Tuesday, and tell them we’re totally unaffiliated if the situation arises.”

They begin walking/floating down the streets, taking the back ways to stay out of sight and subsequent “accidental” con jobs. Which reminds Peter, “You should check out the cargo. The Kingpin was in charge of that whole operation. I don’t know exactly what’s in the boxes themselves but apparently they were determined to keep it quiet.” 

“Cargo? That’s what they were doing? Loading things on trucks? I thought we were just in a very box-y area.” So, apparently very new to the whole superhero thing. “Yeah, I’ll check it out on my way back.” They walk a little further through the mismatched maze of alleys engraved in Peter’s internal map. Johnny perks up. “Kingpin?”

“Huh?”

“You said something about a kingpin? What’s that code?”

Peter mentally rolls his eyes at himself. Not a very journalistic description. “Um, not really. That’s what we call him around here. He kind of runs everything, not outwardly and we don’t know about it but we know about him and that’s enough.”

Johnny crackles. “I know about those. What were you up to out there?”

Peter hesitates. There only so many ‘oh my God Peter don’t run into imminent peril just to take pictures about it Journalism isn’t worth that money isn’t worth that’ speeches in his life and he’s not sure how he’s feeling on getting one from a flying elemental humanoid being. Because Journalism was worth it, or at least the money and keeping Uncle Ben and Aunt May afloat was worth everything. 

Johnny stops. “Hey, Peter,” he sounds so sincere Peter’s shoulders relax from the tension he hadn’t been aware was there. “I know we’ve just meet under stressful circumstances and I don’t expect you to tell me anything that you wouldn’t be comfortable saying, but if you’re in trouble I can help. It’s kind of in the job description.” 

“No, no it’s not that, troubles over. Trouble for now anyway. I was,” Peter contemplates for a moment about the possibility of being judged by the floating fire. Then he realizes Johnny’s a floating fire and goes for it. “Investigating.”  

“Investigating?”

“Investigating.” 

“You look young to be undercover.” 

“You look young to be a super powered fire…guy,” Guy’s not much of a replacement for man but it’s not Fire Man. And Peter doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how young he is or if he has an age or if the plane of reality he’s existing on doesn’t quantify itself by years or really what’s going on at all. Peter’s walking home with a fire stranger and that breaks at least seventy four rules he’s learned about how not to die in Manhattan. He acted five anyway. 

“Okay, okay, point taken. You were investigating. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Our little standoff back there kept me from any big discoveries.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Johnny says lightly. 

For the first time in possibly ever Peter’s not so irritated in being distanced from something like that. “Don’t be. You saved my life and I owed you one. Just get me the pictures when you go back to check.” He winks not really expecting any confirmation in receiving anything, but at least putting it out there. 

“I’ll try,” and that makes Peter look over. Really look over. Because that’s a tone that’s never happened before. It’s not a tone of pent up irritation compensated with patronization in dealing with the priorities Peter won’t bother explaining to anyone else. It’s…promising. 

Without checking or taking his eyes of Johnny the fire man the new superhero Peter stops by the ladder to his uncle and aunt’s apartment. He makes it brighter here, not just with all the fire though yeah that helps, but there’s a glow in the alley. The hues reflection in the murky water run bring out the stars even more than they are in the sky and Peter can pretend he’s where he isn’t. 

“This is me,” Peter grabs the ladder and lets the momentum of pulling it down pick him up as he’s able to float momentarily himself. 

“Jeez, freaking acrobat yourself,” Johnny whistles. “I’ll see you around, Peter Parker.” Johnny waves first in his hand and through the rest of his form. There’s a whoosh and he blinks out. 

“Don’t forget the photos!” Peter screams to the empty space left. For a moment he lets himself stand there. What journalism has taught him is truth is tricky. Truth is the least solidified essence of the world, it stretches and it bends and it breaks, and usually can only be measured in reports. Peter doesn’t find truth in most things. But he sees it in Johnny. 

Left out in the morning, when Peter’s rubbing sleep and the probability of everything that happened last night, he finds an envelope taped on the outside of his window. 


End file.
